Page 69 of Down Knot Out
“Return to the pack?” The leather chair creaks as I shift, uncomfortable beneath the chill of Gregory’s regard.
Harrison Wells opens a leather portfolio with the Sinclair crest embossed in gold, extractingdocuments that will attempt to define my future in cold, legal terminology.
“Yes, return.” Wells adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “The Sinclair pack is prepared to acknowledge you as a member, providing you agree to certain stipulations.”
Dominic’s scent sharpens beside me, citrus notes cutting through the room’s perfectly ventilated air. Beneath the table, his thumb traces circles on the back of my hand in quiet reassurance that he won’t let these vultures hook their claws into me again.
“The primary condition is your discretion regarding paternity.” Wells slides a document toward me. “Your legal father will remain Augustus Sinclair. Gregory’s involvement must remain private.”
My fingertips brush the paper without picking it up. The heavy stock is expensive,unlike the flimsy offer contained within its paragraphs.
“Why are you here, but Augustus isn’t?” The question has been eating at me.
If Augustus wants me to pretend he’s my father, shouldn’t he be included in this meeting?
Gregory’s brow furrows. “My brother died two years ago of heart failure. Did you not read it in the news?”
The blood drains from my face, and I clutch Dominic’s hand tighter. No, I hadn’t seen it on the news. I try very hard not to read anything that has to do with my former pack.
“If Augustus is dead, why does it matter if Chloe’s his daughter or yours?” Dominic asks for me, since I’m still reeling from this latest bomb dropped in my lap.
Gregory’s sigh carries the weight of explaining simple concepts to a child. “Mr. Sterling, pack politics are more nuanced than your little commune might appreciate. The Santaro pack believed Chloe was Augustus’s daughter, the rightful heir to the Sinclairs’ holdings through primogeniture. My bloodline carries different implications.”
“Different implications?” Dominic’s body temperature rises, heat radiating through his suit jacket. “She’s still a Sinclair.”
“A Sinclair from the secondary line.” Gregory’s fingers steeple beneath his chin. “Augustus died without legitimate issue. His assets reverted to me, not to a daughter from an extramarital affair his wife had, even if that daughter carries my DNA rather than his.”
The casualness with which he dismisses me, his own child, jars me out of my stupor. I am acomplication to be managed, not a daughter to be embraced.
Wells clears his throat. “The legal realities are complex. However, the Sinclair pack is prepared to be generous.”
“Generous.” The word scrapes through Dominic’s teeth.
“Indeed.” Wells turns another page in the document. “While Ms. Richardson would not inherit the Sinclair estates or business holdings, she would be welcomed back to the pack with a one-time financial settlement.”
I stare at the number, where my worth is being calculated in dollars and bloodlines.
“In exchange, Ms. Richardson would be expected to produce an heir with an Alpha of the pack’s choosing.” Wells’s pen taps on the page. “This child would inherit the Sinclair legacy through the traditional line of succession.”
The metallic taste of fear floods my mouth. My womb, my body, reduced to an incubator for Sinclair ambitions.
“The chosen Alpha is from an excellent lineage,” Wells adds, as if discussing a prized stallion. “After providing an heir, Ms. Richardson would be free to pursue her own interests, with appropriate financial support, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo.
My attention shifts to Simon, his thin frame locked tight, knuckles pale against the edge of the table. His bolo tie lifts and falls with each sharp breath, the blue stone flickering under the lights. The naked hunger he showed before has transformed into a possessiveness that borders on fanatical.
“After the heir is confirmed healthy,” Wells continues, “Ms. Richardson would receive a monthly stipend, a residence of her choosing within certain parameters, and?—”
“A gilded cage.” Dominic’s interruption slices through the lawyer’s practiced pitch. “You’re offering her a gilded cage and calling it freedom.”
Wells blinks, thrown by the directness. “Mr. Sterling, I assure you?—”
“You’re asking her to be a broodmare.” Dominic’s scent floods the room, protective pheromones so strong that I sway toward him in response. “A surrogate for the Sinclairs’s ambitions who will be discarded again once she’s served her purpose.”
Gregory’s expression hardens. “Mind your tone, Sterling. You’re here as a courtesy, not a participant.”
“I’m here as Chloe’s Alpha.” Dominic’sdeclaration sends a shiver down my spine, sudden pride for my bondmate bursting inside me.
